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worst thing that had ever happened to him, and when he was philosophical about it, he felt that maybe it was a good thing that he’d had to wait. That it built character, gave him a little humility, gave him a chance to sand off some of the rough edges in his techniques. But deep down, he knew that was bullshit. He wanted to test, badly. And to be absolutely honest about it, for the last eight months, he’d felt like a kid who’d been kept back and had to repeat a grade. It wasn’t fair. In fact, it sucked.
    As he started to doze off, he imagined how his test would go that night. The gym would be crowded, at least a hundred andfifty people in white gi uniforms sitting along the edges of the mats. After all the lower belts were finished testing, the black-belt tests would begin. Tozzi’s name would be called, and he’d run out to the middle of the mat. After Sensei tested his posture, Tozzi would then run through all the formal techniques with a partner, dealing with all kinds of attacks, including tanto-tori , knife attacks. After that he would perform bokken kata , a formal movement exercise done with a wooden sword. Then at last the big part of the test would come, the part that everyone both dreaded and looked forward to at the same time: randori , freestyle against multiple attackers.
    To earn the rank of shodan , the first level in the black-belt ranks, you had to take on five opponents simultaneously. But unlike other schools of aikido, where the guy being tested had to make eye contact with his attackers before they could attack, thereby assuring that they came at you one at a time, in Tozzi’s school, Aikido Kokikai, they attacked at will, using any of the various attacks that were used in technique practice.
    Tozzi pictured his attackers lined up on the mat, most of them seasoned black belts, all sitting seiza on their knees in a row. Tozzi would also be sitting seiza , facing them, about twenty-five feet away. They would all be staring at him, mean-faced, trying to psyche him out, but he wouldn’t let himself be intimidated by such blatant tactics. He was centered. His attitude was positive. His mind was free and open. He had no strategy, no special techniques, no tricks he intended to use. His only goal was to get out of the way and take each one as he came, throwing him efficiently and automatically, keeping a rhythm and not lingering over any particular attacker. He’d keep moving and make them come to him, make them commit their attacks and compromise their own balance. He wouldn’t fall into the typical trap of getting caught flat-footed and allowing them to gang up onhim, each attacker grabbing two fistfuls of his gi jacket and dragging him down. No, he’d stay light and mobile. He wouldn’t let them catch him. He would just throw and move on to the next attacker, throw and move on. That was his only strategy.
    Sitting seiza before his attackers, he would pause to take a deep breath, filling his diaphragm and letting it out slowly through his mouth until finally he was ready. He’d be psyched, but he’d also be relaxed. He was ready to become a black belt. The five attackers would be ready, too, waiting for his bow, the signal for the randori to begin. Tozzi would take another deep breath and let it out slowly, settling deeper into his center. All he’d have to do now was bow.
    He’d scan his attackers one last time, making eye contact with each grim face. He was ready. Calmly he’d bow, and they’d all jump to their feet, rushing at him full-tilt. He’d stand up and wait, wait for them to come to him. He was calm, ready. The first black belt would run up to him, his fist balled. Tozzi would force himself to wait. The punch would come full force, aimed right at his—
    â€œHey, Mike!”
    Tozzi’s eyes shot open. He looked all around him. It wasn’t the bright lights of the gym or the wide blue expanse of the mats. It was